"We will all dine together when it's only family, as we did aboard ship, Miss Burke. We'll keep country hours so Mattie can join us."
This was phrased as an order, but there was a thread of longing beneath it only one who knew him would hear. The lonely little boy had a family again in this place that haunted him--a bastard daughter, a governess whose background would not stand up to scrutiny, a first mate who'd paid for loving another man, a puppy who confused leather gloves with appropriate chew toys.
Once upon a time she could not imagine herself close friends with a retired prostitute or consorting with pirates. That Lydia no longer existed. The one who was here now was glad of her place in this strange little society of outcasts and criminals.
"As you say, Captain. I will be downstairs shortly."
"One other thing--if you wear an ugly cap, you will not get dessert. One must have standards, even here in the country."
He took himself off before she could come up with an appropriate rejoinder, and what annoyed her most was two minutes after she closed her door she thought of at least four witty and cutting bon mots she could have flung at Captain St. Armand!
They ate in the smaller room, the one where breakfast was served, and the room looked much improved.
"You have been busy, Miss Burke. I can see it, and Braxton is most pleased to have the house restored," St. Armand said.
"My plan, Captain, is to clean Huntley room by room, starting with those areas used daily, then most often, then finally, the public spaces."
"We have furniture in the attic if you need additional pieces. Braxton will know what's there."
"What did you do today, Papa?"
"Today, Marauding Mattie, I talked with Mr. Fuller about crops and tomorrow or the next day I will ride out to the tenant farms, if the weather permits. Can you take a break from lessons to accompany me one day soon? I want to show you both more of Huntley, and this way Mattie will meet some of the young people in the area and their families."
"Is there no village school, Captain?"
"I do not believe there is, but we can learn more by making rounds of the farms, and then going into Ashwyn. Of course, organizing a school for the local children would be the natural task of Lady Huntley. My father's first wife, I'm told, was quite involved with that endeavor."
Lydia compressed her lips into a thin line. There would eventually be a Lady Huntley. Lydia's job was to focus on Mattie, her charge, and leave those responsibilities to whoever would take up the duties of the baron's wife.
"I will talk with Mrs. Farmer about making baskets to take with us as we visit. She might be able to make some biscuits, and I'm certain I saw enough jars of preserves that we could take that as well."
She looked over at Mattie, who was listening intently. "Just as a captain is responsible for his crew, the lord of the manor is responsible for his tenants, Mattie. It is a relationship of give-and-take, and when you are a grown lady you will have responsibilities to your husband's dependents as well."
Mattie shook her head firmly. "I will not marry, Miss Burke. I will be a pirate captain. Then no one will be able to tell me what to do!"
Lydia looked at St. Armand in exasperation, but he just raised his brows and said, "You have many years, Mathilde, before you have to concern yourself with either marriage or piracy. For now, practice your mathematics and your knife fighting and you will better prepare yourself for both."
"Captain St. Armand!"
"Look, here's William with dessert, a syllabub, if I am not mistaken."
Lydia excused herself after supper to spend time with Mattie in the nursery on needlework and they were they were joined at bedtime by the captain, his copy of Captain Johnson tucked under his arm.
"Hurrah! Tonight you will read the rest of Mary Read and Anne Bonny's story, Papa?"
"That is my plan, Mathilde. I seem to recall there are books in the nursery also."
"Books about little children who are always polite and do their lessons and never fight," Mattie sniffed disdainfully.
"Yes, I recall that as well," St. Armand said. "Who wouldn't choose pirates instead?"
Lydia stayed silent because she too would rather hear about pirates. She'd been thinking too much over the past hour about St. Armand, and what the coming night would bring when Mattie slept.
Mattie settled herself under her covers, and her father sat on the bed beside her while Lydia took up her mending again. Soon she too was caught up in the tale of the lady buccaneers.
"'While Mary Read sometimes claimed she abhored the life of a pirate, men who sailed with her said under oath that no person amongst them were more resolute, or ready to board or undertake anything that was hazardous, as she and Anne Bonny. Particularly at the time they were attacked and taken, when they came to close quarters, none kept the deck except Mary Read and Anne Bonny... Mary Read, called to those under deck to come up and fight like men, and finding that they did not stir, fired her arms down the hold amongst them, killing one and wounding others.'"
Lydia sighed and put her hands in her lap, looking at her young charge's reaction to this most inappropriate tale. Of course Mattie's eyes were wide in her face as she took this in.
"'This much is certain, that she did not want bravery,'" Mattie's papa continued. "And then...hmmmm...in this section Captain Johnson explains how Anne took a liking to Mary, thinking her a young man, but once Anne realized Mary was another woman they became fast friends. Anne, you will recall, was the paramour of Calico Jack Rackam."
"Perhaps this is a good point to stop?"
"Oh no, ma'am! Please, Papa, read some more about Mary Read!"
"Very well, Mattie. I told you about Mary's husband, for whom she fought a duel. Tomorrow I will finish Johnson's tale of Mary's final battle alongside Anne Bonny when they were captured. For the end of Mary's tale though, we have this... She testified that her young husband was an honest man and had no inclination to be a pirate, and Johnson says she was not a woman who was wanton or behaved badly with men. The court might have had compassion for Mary Read, but she was done in by the testimony of Rackam. Do not be sad, child," he said gently, "for it was a long time ago, and the story of that brave girl lives on. Now it is time for you to say good night."
"Good night, Papa," the girl whispered as he leaned down to kiss her forehead, "I love you."
"I love you too, poppet."
When Lydia rose to leave, Mattie said in a small voice, "May I have a kiss from you also, Miss Burke?"
"Of course," Lydia said, and leaned down to place her own kiss on Mattie's soft cheek. As she straightened up she brushed a wisp of hair off of Mattie's forehead.
"I love you, Miss Burke," the little girl said drowsily, but Lydia had no reply that could move past the lump in her throat.
When she stepped out of the nursery Robert was leaning against the wall, waiting for her. She'd been unsure of how the night would proceed, but the look in his eyes warmed her, and worried her. Last night brought her to full awareness again of what it meant to be a vibrant, passionate woman, but there were so many risks involved in continuing along that path.
Oh, but she longed to be like Mary Read, whose passion for her lover was "no less violent than his," according to Captain Johnson. If Mary fought a duel for her man, what lengths would Lydia go to for hers? Would she cross the threshold into his room, and spend the night in his arms, forgetting her problems, or at least some of them, for a few blissful hours?
She raised her eyes to his. Fire burned there, fire for her.
"Will you come to my room tonight?"
The words came out of her mouth before her thoughts were clear. "Yes. At midnight, after the house is asleep."
"I will look for you then and curse the hours that must pass before," he said, running the back of his fingers down her cheek. "For now though, I must excuse myself to work further on those bedamned account books." He sighed. "Life was easier as a pirate, I must say."
Lydia occupied herself with her
own mending as the hour grew late, but the day's events caught up with her and she fell sound asleep sitting up in front of the fire. She went downstairs and the door to Robert's study was closed, but indistinct voices drifted out.
"Braxton, do you know who is in the study with Lord Huntley?"
The butler was making his rounds, checking the windows and doors.
"It is two sailors, ma'am. They were ushered directly in and food sent for them."
"Two sailors? One tall, dark-skinned, the other short, red-haired and missing fingers on his left hand?"
"Exactly. They appear to have been expected."
"Turnbull and Nash," Lydia murmured to herself. Mattie would be pleased her shipmates were returned, but she wondered what was so urgent the men met with Robert now, so late in the evening.
The hour grew late, the door to Robert's study remained closed and she prepared for bed, her braid of hair falling across her shoulder over her plain wrapper. After checking on Mattie one last time Lydia took her candle and entered her own room, sighing at the thought of her empty bed.
"Who is Thomas Wilson and why is he interested in your whereabouts?"
Lydia shrieked and nearly dropped her candle. She spun around, and made out the form of the man sitting in the dark, waiting for her. Then his question registered with her.
"Who--what?"
He sighed.
"You heard me, Lydia. Put down that candle. You are shaking so hard you might drop it. Now, once again, who is Thomas Wilson?"
She put down the candle, for she was indeed shaking, and clasping her hands pulled herself together.
"Not--not here, not now, Captain. We might wake Mattie with our talking."
He rose to his feet. "It will be now, but we can adjourn to my room if it makes you more comfortable."
Going to his room would not make her more comfortable, but it gave her some time to collect her thoughts.
They made the short journey to the master's rooms in silence, and once there he pulled out a chair and motioned her to sit. After examining her wordlessly he walked to a table and poured some rum into a glass. She wondered if she looked as pale as she felt, for he brought her the glass.
"Drink."
She did, and while it burned as it went down, it helped, but he took it away after one swallow and set it aside.
"I intend, my dear Lydia, to get to the bottom of this once and for all, tonight, and to determine if you are a threat to me, my crew, and most importantly, to Mathilde. The longer you delay, the shorter my temper grows."
She'd thought them long past the point where the pirate might dispose of her if he found her inconvenient or annoying or a danger. Clearly, she'd been premature in feeling herself safe from harm.
Lydia took a breath and looked down at her hands. She stopped her fingers from their nervous twining, spreading them wide on her lap, forcing them to stillness.
He took another chair and sat, arms crossed over his chest. The room was softly lit by the fire, and candles, a haven against the cold night.
"My story? It is not as exciting as Mary Read or Anne Bonny's tale, but there is a man involved."
"There always is, Lydia," he said with surprising gentleness. "Just start from the beginning."
"The beginning--I suppose my story begins as so many do, with a foolish, headstrong girl who thought herself special. Not like the other girls. No, for her everything had to be...more. She wasn't content to sit at lessons all day, she had to run and be in motion. She wasn't content to wear washed-out white and pastels, she wanted to dress in reds and purples and gold. She wanted to be shiny, and glittery, and let her voice be loud, and her feet pound the ground and her brushstrokes be bold and outside the lines of what was appropriate for girls to draw."
A smile tugged up the corners of his mouth. "I think I would like this girl."
"No doubt," she said tartly, "because rogues like you are attracted to the girls most likely to get into trouble."
His smile broadened at this and slouched back in his chair, his long legs stretched out before him, ankles crossed, hands clasped on his lap as he settled in to hear her tale.
"Her behavior did not improve when her parents died and she was sent to live with relatives who had strict notions of how girls should comport themselves. Naturally, she also thought herself wiser than all the adults around her, and knew them to be nothing but dried-out old sticks who'd never lived, and could not possibly understand how deeply she felt about everything. She was a great one for fervid drama and florid verse."
He frowned at this. "Is this what I have to look forward to in ten years or so?"
"If so, it will only be what you deserve, Captain St. Armand."
He waved his hand in the air to have her continue.
"So, this girl grew up and was the despair of the relatives raising the orphan--"
"What happened to her parents?"
"Do you want me to continue, or not?"
He raised a finger in the air to have her pause, took the rum and drank it.
"That is my rum," she scowled.
"You will receive more if it's warranted. Continue."
Lydia shifted in her seat and forced her shoulders to relax. "Where were we?"
"This interesting girl was the despair of all who knew her."
"Ah. Yes. Her parents died in a boating accident and she was told--repeatedly--how fortunate she was that her aunt and uncle took her in, considering how little money was left from her parents for her upbringing."
"Were they cruel to her?"
"Not in the way you might think. She wasn't beaten, but she knew they saw her as a burden, a test of their Christian charity. They made that clear to her. There were those who didn't object to this girl and her bold ways. She was popular with the young gentlemen who knew she was always up for a bit of fun, a 'good 'un' as they would say, a girl who wanted find out for herself what all the fuss was about, a girl who would sneak behind the bushes to try a cheroot--or a kiss."
She looked down at her hands, remembering, not totally with regrets. He didn't say anything, but she saw him shift in his seat, so she took a breath and continued.
"Then one evening at an assembly, she met a man. He wasn't like the boys in her village who talked big but had never done anything with their lives. This man was a naval lieutenant who'd had adventures and been places and done things, exciting things."
"Wasn't this girl warned about sailors and their ways?"
"Of course she was. But why would this obstinate chit listen to that when she'd never listened to any other good advice? So she began spending time with the lieutenant, Edwin Carstairs, who was on half-pay. When her family warned her he had a reputation as a hothead and a braggart she did not listen to them. When they forbade her from seeing him, she sneaked out of the house to meet him at night in the woods. When Edwin asked her to run off with him, she said yes, because it sounded romantic and adventurous and it would get her away from all the censorious eyes constantly watching her."
This time when she paused, and looked at the glass of rum in his hands, he passed it to her. When she was done drinking he stepped out and returned with a second glass. He didn't tell her to stay put. He didn't need to. Both she and he realized this was story she needed to tell, a story he needed to hear.
If nothing else, she thought wryly, it was an excellent cautionary tale for a man with a young daughter.
"She packed a valise, taking her book of poems, because what could be more necessary to life and love than that, and the few coins she'd saved and her small pieces of jewelry--a gold locket, a strand of pearls, a cameo brooch. Pieces suitable for a young lady."
"He was disappointed by her lack of money and jewels, wasn't he?"
"You speak from experience?"
He shook his head. "No, but I have an idea of how the minds of men like Carstairs work."
"Of course you do. Our lovebirds traveled to London and it was all quite exciting and romantic, staying in questionable inns, giving h
im her possessions because when you were in love you share everything, don't you?"
"Did he abandon her in London?"
"Do you want to hear the rest of the tale?"
"My apologies. Please, go on."
"No, Edwin did not abandon her. He really did want her, and was glad of her company and her love, and the feeling was mutual. But he was without funds of his own. He was owed prize money but it was not forthcoming. He'd spent the small bequest from his late father, he had no prospects except his hope of another ship. When they arrived in London he took her to Wapping, to an inexpensive house where he knew people, people who would not condemn a young couple who were in love, but without the benefit of the church sanctioning it. He didn't have the funds for a special license, she could not marry without her guardians' permission, but they did not care for they had each other."
"It must have been horrid for her."
"She loved it," Lydia corrected him with a smile of remembrance. "Every day was a new adventure. While her beau wrote letters to contacts who he hoped would secure him a berth on another vessel, she spent the day playing house, chatting with the other women in the building, learning how to shop in the marketplace without getting robbed--by the merchants or the pickpockets--writing bad poetry until she could no longer afford ink. It did not feel tragic at all. In the evenings they joined his friends at a nearby tavern, a mixed crew of all sorts. There were vicars and whores, gentlemen and rat-catchers, and a political assortment of deists, utopians, abolitionists, Spenceans, Paineites--if someone had thought of a way to upset the usual workings of government and society, he'd be found there. It was all quite educational for a young lady of gentle birth."
They had been heady times. Talking--really, arguing--late into the night about the rights of man, and the rights of women as well, drinking cheap ale, sharing what little they had with others who had less. At night when it was cold she and Edwin had each other's warmth and she felt satisfied. In some ways they were the best days of her life.
"In every Eden there's a tempting serpent, isn't there?" Lydia sighed. "We debated Bentham and were fond of his ideas of 'sinister interest' keeping the common man from reaching his full potential. Of course, once you accept such ideas it's easier to take a step into a more Jacobin attitude--am I boring you?"
The Pirate's Secret Baby Page 25